Chapter 2 THE FIRST MEETING

Scent of toast floated through the tiny kitchen of Emma's Brooklyn apartment, an area so curtained by claustrophobia it would qualify more as a pantry with a delusion of grandeur. In fact, the one responsible for it is Sophia, her younger sister, glaring at the toaster as if the sheer force of will can undo all damages.

"I swear, this toaster hates me," Sophia said, her cheeks flushed.

"Maybe it's because you're squeezing in bagels that don't fit," Emma retorted, breezing into the kitchen. "She pushes on Sophia and grabs a butter knife to start scraping the charred remains off the bagel.

That was how the family really was: chaotic but imperfectly familiar home. The old armchair their father had kept sat in the middle of a living room with a blanket folded neatly over the back.

Bills piled up on one corner of that table, half-covered by an old tabloid Emma wrote for. The tabloid shrieked: "Billionaire Playboys: Secrets Behind the Money!"

It wasn't exactly Pulitzer Prize material but, hey, it paid for groceries that week.

"Did Dad take his meds this morning?" Emma asked, glancing back at Sophia over her shoulder.

"I reminded him," Sophia said, pouring coffee into a chipped mug. "But he grumbled about how it's all just 'snake oil' and told me to mind my own business."

Emma sighed. Their father, Richard Clarke, had congestive heart failure two years before. Thus, the costly medical fees would slowly drain the family dry. He had been a stubborn man all his life, but the illness had made a fortress out of his pride. To convince him to rest or accept help would be like wrestling a bull into a tutu.

"I'll talk to him," Emma said, her voice softening.

Sophia leaned on the counter with an extremely concerned look on her face. "You're taking too much, Em. Work, Dad, and keeping this whole place afloat ... I don't want you to burn out." Emma smiled tiredly at her sister. "I'm fine, really. Just concentrate on your classes. That's your job."

Sophia, however, couldn't buy anything of it. And before she could even begin arguing with Emma, their father slowly ambled into the kitchen. "Morning, Dad," Emma greeted him and shoved a plate of scrambled eggs and toast forward.

"Morning, sweetheart," Richard said into his casket voice. He eyed the food with suspicion. "This isn't one of those 'healthy' breakfasts, is it?"

"Eggs, Dad. Not kale smoothies," Emma rolled her eyes.

He still huffed out his grumbling but sat up and began eating. Emma stared at him for a moment before she felt her chest tightening. The once strong body had thinned, and now his hands were trembling slightly as he lifted his fork.

"Don't you have work to get to?" Richard asked abruptly. "Yeah," Emma replied and grabbed her bag. She didn't mention that her "work" for the day involved chasing down a lead that might not even pan out.

Two hours later, she found herself standing in front of CrossTech Tower for the very first time. Not that she would have ever planned to be there; it was going to be some generic fact-finding mission gathering evidence on rumors of some shady new data-mining program purportedly spearheaded by that infamous Adrian Cross.

But, as Emma stood in the lobby, waiting to see if her fake charm would be enough to persuade the receptionist into spilling any juicy details, fate (or possibly bad luck) had other plans. "Excuse me miss," a deep, unmistakably authoritative voice said behind her.

Emma turned. And there he was. Adrian Cross. In the flesh.

Up close, he looked much scarier than in photographs. Towering and impeccably dressed, he radiated an air of control that was absolute in itself enough to generate its own gravitational pull. But what threw Emma off guard was his expression-calm, yes, but with a flicker of curiosity in those steel-gray eyes.

For a moment, Emma froze. Then her brain kicked into overdrive. Say something clever, she thought.

"Uh . . . hi?" she blurted. Brilliant, Emma. Truly Pulitzer-worthy.

Adrian's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"Maybe how can I help you?"

Emma straightened and maintained the posture of the confident journalist she wished to be and said, "Actually, I came here hoping to ask you some questions concerning the recent allegations that CrossTech's new program violates privacy of users. Will you care to comment?"

The receptionist who had been shooting daggers at Emma since her arrival gasped audibly. Adrian, however, remained unfazed.

"That is brave," he said, in a level voice.

"My job," Emma answered, resting her chin.

Adrian scrutinized her for a while, weighing options. Finally, he said, "Walk with me."

Emma blinked. "What?" "You like the answers, don't you?" he continued, moving away.

She rushed after him with her heart racing; this was not how she'd expected the day to turn out.

He led her to a sleek café just now being completed down the street. The place was all glass and chrome, with baristas who could have moonlighted as runway models. Emma felt distinctly out of place sitting across from Adrian at a small table near the window.

He ordered an espresso. She, despite feeling out of her depth, ordered a latte with caramel drizzle.

"Now," Adrian said, leaning back in his chair, "what exactly do you think you know about CrossTech?"

Emma had caught the challenge in his tone. She took out a notepad from her bag, flipping it to the page where she had noted all that she had found out.

"There's a rumor that CrossTech is collecting user data through the new app without proper consent," she said. "And they sell the data to third-party companies."

Adrian raised a brow. "Rumors."

"I have sources," she said, much to admit, though they were of dubious credibility-to-say-the-least.

"And you thought it was a good idea to confront me head-on?" he asked, lips curving into a faint smile.

Emma shrugged, pretending to be unconcerned. "Figured, might as well give it a shot. Besides, you're less scary in person."

Laughed at that short, unexpected sound. Adrian caught her off guard.

"That was bold and funny," he said. "You're full of surprises, Ms...?"

"Clarke," she said. "Emma Clarke."

"Well, Ms. Clarke, I suggest you research a little bit before throwing accusations. But I admire your spunk."

Emma's cheeks flushed; she could not tell, though, whether it was out of embarrassment or the strange heat brought on by his gaze.

Now, home that evening, Emma ran the encounter in her mind. She was no closer to proving the scandal, but Adrian Cross somehow struck her as more fascinating than the cold, robotic businessman she had imagined; there seemed to be a flicker of something human beneath the polished exterior, something she could not quite put her finger on.

His father was asleep, slumping in his chair, the blanket slipping off one shoulder. She gently straightened it, feeling a very sore heart at the sight of such frailness. Sophia came into view at the doorway with a gentle visage on her.

"How was work?" Sophia whispered.

Emma hesitated. "Interesting."

Her sister shot her an arched brow. "Interesting; as in you got a lead? Or interesting; as if you found some hunky guy?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Don't get any ideas. It's complicated."

Sophia grinned. "With you, everything is complicated."

Emma chuckled lightly, even as she made her way towards her room; there was an annoying thought that clung to her mind. Adrian Cross was no longer simply a story; he had become a puzzle, and one she was unsure whether she wanted to solve or perhaps was afraid to solve.

Sadly for her, their fates were destined to intertwine in ways neither could predict.